Sharon Has a Memorable Birthday
by i-must-go-first
Summary: Sharon is turning sixty. A story not quite ridiculous enough to be crack fic, but far too silly to be taken seriously, written for the Brenda/Sharon month of love.


**Sharon Has a Memorable Birthday, with apologies to David Copperfield - the novel, not the magician.**

_Author's note: this story is not quite crazy enough to be legitimate crack fic, but it's far too silly to be taken seriously. Also, I assume Sharon is supposed to be in her fifties, but I took the liberty of aging her a few years, because hey, I can't imagine Major Crimes going to a lot of trouble for someone's fifty-sixth birthday. _

1.

"Rusty!" Sharon called as loudly as her scratchy throat would allow, her shoulder and hip braced against the outside of her condo door to keep her grocery bags from toppling to the ground. Her fingers rummaged blindly in her purse for her keys. Situations like this one, she thought in exasperation, were why she'd switched to a smaller handbag; so why had her keys become exponentially more difficult to find? She knew Rusty was home, but the teenager didn't appear and save her from herself. He was probably buried in his bedroom, shielded from the world by his laptop screen and the comically oversized headphones she'd given him for Christmas because "Seriously, Sharon, everyone at school has them and I look like a complete tool walking around with my earbuds." (Sharon had remembered having a similar conversation with her own mother about tennis shoes versus penny loafers, the kind with the slots for real pennies, and had allowed herself to be a very soft sell.)

As she staggered inside, the bottom of one of the eco-friendly, 75%-recycled-material paper bags gave way. A ripe grapefruit landed beside her foot with a squishy thud, while a can of tomato paste rolled under the island, and she swore softly. "Rusty," she called again, but she could barely hear herself. Her voice was a thin thread, thanks to the amount of time today she'd spent shouting over the din of a Murder Room filled with the officers from three different county law enforcement agencies.

When, as expected, she received no response, Sharon kicked off her heels and padded down the hallway. Her knuckles were poised to rap when Rusty's low murmur seized her attention, and she hesitated.

"No, it's cool. Sharon doesn't suspect anything."

She recognized his confident tone, the one she occasionally heard when he explained something technological or hip to her, and which she'd never heard in the presence of anyone under the age of forty. Rusty loved the chess team and the captain loved that he loved it, but it hadn't proven to be a big leap toward becoming Mr. Popularity among his teenage peers.

"I've totally got this," he continued, and she could envision him puffing his thin chest out in a show of bravado. Sharon bit her lip and almost took a step back, but stopped. She'd never shared the parental propensity for eavesdropping or peeking around corners, but Rusty came with special challenges, and this conversation was making her uneasy.

""I can sneak a few out and put them back again before she ever notices they're gone. I know where she keeps them. - Yeah, I think it'll be pretty sweet."

The captain's mind raced. What in the world could be the subject of this amateur black-ops endeavor? She sifted through the contents of her thoughts, which were normally as orderly as the contents of her home, sorting all the items that might appeal to a teenage boy into a heap. Did she need to lock up the liquor cabinet? It was hard to imagine Rusty making off with a couple of bottles of Viognier stuffed into his backpack, but teenagers were fairly clueless, despite all their deviousness, when it came to the finer points of alcohol consumption. She recalled a youthful indiscretion with a bottle of purloined vermouth, the thought of which still made her mouth pucker. Not the handgun she'd taken to keeping in her nightstand since Rusty had begun receiving the letters. For one thing, she had only one, not "a few"; and for another, the boy seemed uninterested in firearms. Booze, guns - her brain stuttered. She couldn't think of anything he might want or need that he wouldn't just ask for.

"Sharon, that you?"

She took a step back before he found her lurking. "Mm, wrapped things up early. Come help me put the groceries away. I'm making shrimp stir-fry for dinner."

His eyes lit up with enthusiasm. As she placed a fresh carton of eggs in its proper spot in the refrigerator door, the captain shook her head. Rusty looked so innocent that she was almost inclined to forget the whole thing.

Almost.

2.

The next afternoon, Sharon hesitated for just an instant in the act of scooping a serving of chickpeas onto her salad plate. Without moving her head, she looked up through her bangs. Not her imagination, then. Amy Sykes was riveted to the way the captain was preparing her lunch, as if the operation were as intricate as open-heart surgery.

Caught in the act, Sykes blinked. "Salad, huh?"

"Yes. Salad, indeed." Half a boiled egg joined the chickpeas and cucumber slices next to the requisite amount of romaine. "Are you not eating?"

"Oh, yeah. I mean, yes, ma'am. I'm going to grab a burger."

"You sound like Rusty."

"Well, a turkey burger. You always have salad, don't you?"

The idea of a colleague observing her eating habits was rather disconcerting. "It's habit, really. And after you've eaten the LAPD's cuisine for as many years as I have, you discover that salad is the safest bet."

"But wasn't there an e. coli outbreak a few years ago, from the spinach?"

"Amy," Raydor chided. Not that the detective had her facts wrong. Sharon had brought lunch from home for six months. She never wanted to see another peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

"I'm sure it's fine, captain. Very clean." Sykes side-stepped so Sharon could reach the vinaigrette. "What would you say your favorite food is?"

What was this, an ice-breaker? Or maybe Sykes was gearing up to ask her out on a dinner date. A girlish giggle bubbled up from her throat at the ridiculous thought, and it was the younger woman's turn to look askance.

Sharon decided to play along. "I like breakfast. Omelets, pancakes. Bacon. Not turkey bacon."

Sykes grinned. "It is the most important meal of the day. Enjoy your salad, captain. I'll see you back upstairs."

Raydor watched her detective leave. The young woman didn't stop to grab a turkey burger, or anything else. Behind the lenses of her glasses, Sharon's eyes narrowed. Curious.

3.

That evening Sharon promised herself she was going to finish all her paperwork before she went home. She would never have admitted it aloud, but she was beginning to sympathize, or rather empathize, with a certain former deputy chief who had always been behind-hand in these matters. Then when she finally did hand her paperwork in, it would be smeared with duck sauce and Chinese mustard. For a couple of seconds Sharon's lips curved into a soft smile. Then she yanked her mind back to the present. You had to stay disciplined. That was all there was to it.

She slid open the top drawer of her desk, eyes fastened to the text before her as her fingers sought the compartment where paperclips were supposed to be. They came up empty. Visual inspection confirmed the absence of the little metal implements.

With a sigh, the captain walked on stocking-feet into the empty murder room, and straight over to Andy Flynn's desk. The lieutenant had an unfortunate penchant for straightening paperclips out. Then, overgrown toddler that he was, they found their way into his mouth. Pencils, pens, coffee stirrers, toothpicks, paperclips: nothing was safe. Perhaps a portion of the division's paperclip allotment had survived unmutilated.

As she opened the drawer, something on his little word-a-day desk calendar (a sarcastic commentary from Provenza on the state of his partner's vocabulary) caught her attention. Thursday's date was circled, and next to it he had sketched a tiny but unmistakable witch, complete with hat and broom.

Her fingers closed around a clump of paperclips and she straightened. She half smiled, bemused, annoyed - not sure how to feel.

It was safe to assume that the detectives of Major Crimes were aware of her rapidly approaching sixtieth birthday.

At least you only turned sixty once, thank God.

4.

Wednesday afternoon, Sharon broke the heel of her left pump and, since it was a quiet day at work, went home to change.

As she opened the condo door, the first thing she registered was Rusty sprawled in the floor in front of the TV, watching music videos with the volume turned up to an objectionable level.

"The neighbors will complain," she shouted by way of greeting, dumping her ruined shoes by the door.

Rusty jerked, startled, and fumbled for something that was screened from her view by the furniture - the remote, presumably. "The neighbors are at work," he shouted back.

"I'm not," she pointed out as he succeeded in muting the TV. She caught his curious gaze directed at her feet. "Broke a heel in a foot chase with a suspect."

His eyes lit up. "Really?"

She snorted. "No, I tripped over my own feet." She negotiated around the chair, moving toward him, and stopped short. "Rusty?"

"I'm sorry, Sharon. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to, uh, to - to pry, or anything -"

Smiling, she sat down in the chair and leaned over his shoulder. "It's perfectly fine for you to look, honey." Her eyes focused on the black and white photos neatly arranged on the pages of the album spread open before him. "What's the point of making albums if no one sees them?"

"Did you make this one?"

"My mother did. She made one for each of us. But I don't know how interesting it can be, since you don't know who any of the people are."

"It's pretty easy to tell which one you are, Sharon." His index finger landed on a shot of a chubby baby. "You've _always_ had a lot of hair."

She laughed, a deep, rich sound that filled the room. "It was the fifties. Everybody had a lot of hair."

"These are your parents. I mean, obviously, but I recognized them. Who's this?"

Sharon slid from the chair to kneel beside him. "My baba - my grandmother. And she made me that dress. It was blue, with yellow trim."

"Wow, you remember that? That was, like - "

"A very long time ago, yes. You'll see when you're my age."

"And this?"

"That's my birthday. I think I was six there." She turned her head, studying him rather than the photographs. "Does this sudden interest in my dim and misty past have anything to do with a certain event taking place tomorrow?"

Rusty looked down at his nails. "It's not sudden."

"Rusty," she warned. "Between this and Amy Sykes scouting out my eating preferences, anyone would know something's up. And I am a detective, need I remind you."

He rolled his eyes. "No, you do not need to remind me."

"If I'm going to be publicly humiliated in some way, I think I deserve to know."

"Wha -? Sharon, no. It's nothing bad," he assured.

"No? They're not going to burn the Wicked Witch in effigy in the break room?"

Rusty frowned in confusion. "The who in what? Ef - effi -"

"Never mind. But someone is planning something."

He hesitated.

"I don't like surprises."

"But if I tell you, you'll still act surprised?"

In demonstration she gasped, widening her eyes.

"They thought -"

"Who thought?"

"Everybody. Buzz is the one who called me."

She nodded. "Go on."

"They thought you might have plans tomorrow night, so they're having lunch for you, and a cake. It's from the bakery where you got the one for my birthday, Sharon. I said you'd like carrot. Was that right?"

She smiled, touched by his anxiety to please. "That was right. So lunch and cake - what's with the cloak and dagger routine, and the photos?"

"Um. Well." He bit the inside of his cheek. "It's possible that Buzz and Lieutenant Tao are making a slide show."

"A slide -?!"

"And fliers to put up around the building."

Sharon slumped back.

"So I'm supposed to get pictures from when you were younger. Embarrassing, if possible."

"As if turning sixty isn't bad enough."

"Yeah, it's kind of hard to believe that you're so - I mean, uh -"

She shot him a dark look. "Imagine how I feel."

"Come on, Sharon. You're always telling me to be a good sport."

"Fine." She sighed. "But I'm choosing the photos."

"You can help. As long as we include at least one of you with hair down past your ass."

"Hey -"

"Cooperate, and I won't give them the one of you smoking this very suspicious-looking cigarette. Your _mom_ made this album?"

She shrugged. "Here, this one." She tapped an image of herself in a cheerleading uniform. "They'll get a kick out of it."

"Bad eighties perm?"

"Yeah, okay. Oh, and here." She flipped pages until she came to a Halloween when the kids had been small. Sharon looked into the camera wearing full witch regalia, green face and all. "Never let anybody tell you I don't have a sense of humor."

They selected a couple more images. Rusty flipped pages until he came to the ones at the end that were blank. Sharon hadn't inherited her mother's penchant for album-making. "That's it," she said, and as Rusty turned to hand the bulky book to her, an envelope fluttered out onto the carpet. The corner of a photo peeked out.

"What's this?" Without waiting for a response, Rusty slid the photos out of the envelope in one fluid motion. As soon as he saw the first one, he froze.

Sharon swallowed, and then took and released a deep, quiet breath.

"Oh," Rusty said in a small voice, obviously embarrassed.

"Rusty -"

"Um, here." Hastily, he shoved the photos and envelope toward her. "Sorry. I, uh -"

"Rusty, it's okay." Sharon caught his fingers. The envelope crinkled. Her gaze fell upon the top snapshot, one of a few from their single weekend away that she had liked enough to print. Sharon was laughing, her lips parted, her face turned slightly away. Brenda, who held the camera in an outstretched hand, buried her face in the other woman's neck, her lips pressed to her skin. The photo had caught the mischievous sparkle in her chocolate eyes.

"It's okay," Sharon repeated, slipping the pictures back into the envelope.

"I just... I didn't know."

"No." Feeling every one of her sixty-years-minus-a-day, Sharon hauled herself to her feet. "No one did."

Rusty swallowed hard. "Because she was married."

His tone was both accusatory and curious, and she sighed. "For a lot of reasons. We had grown close, working together." The slight weight of the snapshots in her hand seemed to weigh her down. "It felt like the beginning of something. It was - very brief."

"Because of me?"

The sudden question took her by surprise. "Because she and Agent Howard decided to work things out, and because I got this job, and then I had you in my life..." She trailed off. She wore an expression that was earnest, if pained. "It certainly wasn't your fault. It was never meant to be."

"Maybe not then." With that stubborn edge in his voice, Rusty followed Sharon into her bedroom. "But Brenda's divorced now, right?"

Without answering, Sharon dropped the envelope onto the bed and crossed to the closet for fresh shoes.

"Right? Sharon?"

"I have to go back to work."

"I'm just saying there's no reason for it not to work out now."

"There are plenty of reasons." Hurried now, Sharon clipped along in her undamaged heels. "I should be home for dinner."

Rusty followed her right to the door. "You should invite her, you know," he insisted. "Tomorrow. You should invite her."

Sharon huffed as she yanked the door open. "I should not, Rusty. That's the end of this. The matter is closed."

She didn't wait for a response, but stepped out into the hallway, and then both the matter and the door were closed, firmly.

At least you only turned sixty once, thank God.

5.

Sharon felt anxious and jittery at work all morning Thursday. She didn't care for being the center of attention, so the prospect of the 'surprise' birthday lunch was bad enough, but she couldn't shake the awful suspicion that Rusty had gone against her wishes and invited Brenda. He hadn't mentioned it the night before, but he had been unusually solicitous, and had asked her to watch a movie after dinner, as if perhaps he were afraid that his foster-mother was pining away from a broken heart. It was sweet, but unnecessary. The little bit of time she'd had with Brenda Leigh, those few shining weeks filled with promise, had ended over a year ago in a flurry of events that had left Sharon no time to dwell upon what might have been.

It would have been easy enough to call Rusty and ask if he had spoken to Brenda, but she realized she didn't want to know. That was worrisome, because it suggested that some part of her hoped Rusty had invited Brenda, and that Brenda would actually drop whatever she was doing at the D.A.'s office and come.

Even if he had, she didn't. Nothing happened to interfere with the plans her team had made, and Sharon pretended not to notice that, by 11:00, Sykes and Tao had both started squirming like kids anticipating the classroom Christmas party. The food was good, the cake divine, and the whole thing all in all much less awkward and embarrassing than the captain had anticipated. It was really very… _sweet_, she realized, looking up from a forkful of carrot cake to the photograph of herself as the Wicked Witch. These idiots who not long ago had loathed the sound of her Manolos tapping toward them had gone to a lot of trouble to do something nice and celebratory for her birthday. They'd been under no obligation to do that, or indeed to care at all. In her wildest dreams she might have thought Mike and Amy would have taken her out for a sedate drink, perhaps guilting Buzz and even Sanchez into coming along. But to have them all pitch in and do something for her, the boss they'd all once rallied around the watercooler to commiserate about - well, it was enough to make even a semi-jaded career police officer like Sharon experience an emotion.

On that note, she had clapped her hands. She'd already told them she was proud to work with each and every one of them, so that was enough sappiness for a good long while. "Thank you again, but now it's time to get back to business - and for Mr. Beck to get back to school. Andy, if you feel like taking him for a ride?"

Sharon was fairly certain Rusty's downcast expression had little to do with being taken back to school in time for sixth period. So he had called Brenda, then. And she hadn't come.

Back in the comforting solitude of her office, cosily ensconced with a report that needed to be filed, the captain wasn't sure how she felt about that. Relief mingled with disappointment. She'd expressly forbidden Rusty to contact Brenda; but knowing the younger woman had declined the invitation was another matter entirely. Even the delectable taste of cream cheese frosting lingering on her tongue couldn't keep melancholy from trickling in at the edges of her consciousness, and she was glad to be quiet and alone in her inner sanctum.

The truth was that she didn't like to think about Brenda. It was much easier to avoid now that Agent Howard didn't casually drop her name or turn away to answer a call that could only be from one person. But when something reminded Sharon of the former deputy chief, the same process always occurred: she felt a little nostalgic surge of fondness, immediately followed by a swift, sharp dip. Not once since Sharon had taken over Major Crimes had Brenda called, or even so much as texted, to check in. Not once had she dropped by to say hi, even after it had become common knowledge that she and Fritz had split up. It seemed that Brenda had forgotten Sharon as easily as you forgot a humdrum day or a mediocre meal. It never felt good to be forgotten.

Sharon assumed the younger woman had probably moved on by now, found someone new, but that she definitely did not want to know. Should Brenda's absence today be read as confirmation?

No, Sharon reminded herself. For all she knew, the blonde was in court, or on vacation, or had a dentist appointment. Sharon knew nothing about what was happening in Brenda's life, and she planned to keep it that way, because it was the best way she knew of preserving what was, at least for her, the near-perfect memory of the weeks they'd spent together. Finding out their time together had meant something different to Brenda - something less - would be like losing that relationship all over again.

The rap on the door made her jump, which showed how oblivious Sharon had been. The Murder Room was far from deserted; the other woman's entrance must have created a stir.

"Knock knock. Mind if I come in?"

Sharon's chest tightened, and she knew she was staring. Brenda smiled, but she looked nervous, which was the only thing that gave Sharon the nerve to say, "Of course not. Have a seat."

"I like what you've done with the place. I was never much for interior decoratin'."

Sharon wondered how Brenda could tell, because her intense dark gaze was fixed on the older woman, scrutinizing her expression. Brenda looked good, all neutrals and a pop of bright coral, her shiny hair pulled back in a ponytail. Would she never age?

The captain knew she should say something, return some kind of pleasantry, but she only stared.

"Happy birthday." From her tote, Brenda extracted a pale blue envelope and slid it across the surface of the desk. Sharon looked down at her name written in loose, loopy letters. When she reached out for it, Brenda hastily said, "No - you can read it later."

Sharon looked up, alert, questioning.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come for lunch. I - well, no, that's not true, exactly. I thought it would be better if I didn't."

Sharon hummed. "Rusty called you?" she asked, still watching the envelope out of the corner of her eye, as if it might jump up and bite her. What on earth could Brenda have written in a birthday card?

"He did."

Despite herself, Sharon deflated a little. She'd known Brenda hadn't spontaneously remembered her birthday - in fact, Brenda had probably never known when her birthday was. But where the blonde was concerned, Sharon had a disturbing tendency of holding out hope against the odds. "So that's why you came by."

Brenda's narrow shoulders straightened. "That's why I came _today_," she emphasized. "I've thought about comin' a hundred times before, but, well…"

"It's probably for the best that you didn't."

"Is it?" Brenda returned, her expression turning wistful. "I don't know."

Again Sharon felt that she should say something to fill the silence, but she didn't know what to say.

"I'll get goin', if that's what you'd prefer," Brenda said softly, getting to her feet. "I came to ask if you'd let me take you out for a birthday drink, but -"

"Why?" Sharon interrupted. "Why would you want to do that?"

Brenda's mouth twisted. "Look, I don't expect you to be sittin' here, pinin' for me after all this time. But I just thought - I hoped -"

"What did you hope?" the captain asked, her heart thudding.

"Sharon, my life is a lot less of a mess now than it used to be. I - I'm a lot less of a mess."

Sharon breathed out slowly. Her heart was still pounding, and her hands had started to shake. "My life, on the other hand, is much less… tidy than it once was."

Brenda nodded, her hand on the doorknob now. "I don't have any right to expect anythin' from you. But I hope you'll at least read the card, and maybe then we can … talk."

"I don't need to read the card."

Brenda looked crestfallen. "You don't?" she asked, and then, taking in Sharon's tiny smile, "You don't?"

"Brenda, I_ will_ read it. And I'm not promising anything."

"I'm not askin' you to," the younger woman interrupted, and Sharon waved her off before she had the chance to get all tangled up in explaining what she wasn't asking the captain to do.

"I would like to talk," Sharon said, rising and moving around the desk. "And it is my birthday, so I'd like that drink." She reached out, as if by force of habit, and her fingers found Brenda's elbow. The two women were still holding one another's gaze, and from such close proximity it felt much more intimate. Brenda beamed.

"I can absolutely do that," she said, sounding a little breathless. "Five o'clock?"

"Five fifteen."

They stood there, brushing lightly against one another, and for a fleeting moment Sharon thought Brenda was going to lean in and kiss her, which would not have been the most terrible of birthday presents.

Maybe later, Sharon allowed herself to think, after they had talked and she had a couple of glasses of cabernet under her belt. Yes, maybe later.

"I'll see you in a few hours," Brenda said, and Sharon nodded, and at least for the moment, the last year and a half seemed to evaporate. They both grinned.

When Sharon was alone again, she picked up the pale blue envelope, turned it round and round, and then placed it back on the desk. Whatever Brenda had written, it couldn't possibly make up for a year and a half, could it?

_There's no reason for it not to work out now_, Rusty had said, but Rusty was seventeen and had never even _seen_ a functional romantic relationship. There were a thousand reasons just on the short list, and the top two were named 'Brenda' and 'Sharon.'

Those few weeks had been so good. Sharon thought of the wide curve of Brenda's soft mouth. It would be impossible to recapture what they had been then.

But maybe they could snag a little bit of something else.

She looked back at the envelope. The clock on her computer said 2:42. She slit the blue paper with her fingernail, extracted the card, and looked at Brenda's handwriting spilling across the page for a moment before she focused and began to read.

After all, you only got to turn sixty once.


End file.
